


by your bootstraps

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Casual Sex, Child Abuse, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, F/M, Generation Gap, Illustrated, Public Sex, Troll families sure are weird!, gamzee does not like peanut butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus frowns. “I was gonna say ‘not in good mental health sometimes’. He had a rough childhood.”  </p>
<p>Now it’s your turn to frown. “Everyone here had a rough childhood but y’know what? You just…deal with it! You pull yourself up by your bootstraps and you just march on.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. be a child

**Author's Note:**

> The events in this chapter take place directly after "i'm not there" in the Trailerstuck series.

**== >Nepeta: Stalk**

 

You are three months old and the world is full of wonder to you, from every stain on the apartment carpet to the underside of every bed, couch, and table. You lay in your recuperacoon and growl at the scratching around on the outside. Your mother sleeps on the couch pushed into the corner. Without her hearing, she’s too paranoid about leaving you alone.

You manage to climb out of your small recuperacoon and land on the ground with a defiant peep. Your mother still sleeps.  

You stalk after you prey. It thinks it can sneak up on you, but you’re smarter than most grubs— _tougher_ than most grubs. You are the one entrapping it, not the other way around. When it leaps in for a killing bite, you roll out of the way. While the dumb beast is still confused, you tackle it.

You bite harder than any rat could. You shred its throat. You give into your instincts and start savaging it. Its red blood tastes of copper and sweet victory. It’s innards not so much. This is a garbage eater after all. You ignore the guts and going after the muscle.  

You remember your deaf mother. She’s helpless really. You doubt she can hunt. You should share some of your kill with her. You seize your kill’s callused tail in your mouth and drag it over to her. You headbutt her foot for twenty minutes straight until she finally stirs.  

Your mother is less than pleased with your gift though, or at least you assume so from her loud shrieking. She rushes you to the hospital, while some man in white jabs needles into your skin for something called “rabies”. Your mother holds you down the entire time while you hiss and try to bite off the man’s gloved fingers.

You end up sulking in your recuperacoon. On occasion you shoot your mother a glare for throwing your kill in the garbage.

Your father comes home from a late afternoon sermon. Your mother, being herself, tells him everything and makes your first hunting session sound a little more frantic and dangerous than it was. You were in complete control of the situation! You are a hunter after all. When your father enters your room, you growl.

Your father picks you up. You’re so small compared to him that you fit neatly in his hand. You growl again and try to bite his thumb. He chuckles and pets you on the back. He whispers to you,  

“That’s my girl.”

You’ll always remember your father’s voice—deep, melodious. Perfect for a preacher.

**== >Nepeta: Pounce**

You are three years old and it’s a bright spring day. Your father hasn’t been talking much these days. He’s been upset for reasons no one will explain to you. You know he doesn’t preach anymore. You even had to move from your nice apartment to a trailer park at the edge of town. At least you made friends with the mutantblood next door.

Your mother still drags you to church though. You hate it. You hate having to wear a nice dress like a little doll and sit in a chair for an hour so she can brush and braid your hair. You hate long hair. You want to chop it all off. You hate the long drive to church. You hate sitting in wood pews. You hate listening to that old man drone on at the pulpit. You hate your mother constantly telling you in whispers to pay attention and to sit like a lady.  

The only part you enjoyed about church was seeing your father speak.

You don’t know what’s wrong with your father now. It’s like he’s not even the same person anymore. He just sits on the back porch staring off into space and barely speaks. You know your hunting always cheered him up. Sometimes he would wrestle with you. Maybe he’d still do it now? Equius doesn’t think it’s a good idea to bother your father now but what does he know? You’re your father’s favorite and you always will be.

You leap to tackle him, giggling.

His hand seizes your wrist before you even touch him. You look at his face. His eyes are narrowed and lips twisted into a scowl. There’s nothing playful in those eyes. You begin to mutter an apology. He doesn’t let go of your wrist; he squeezes instead. You’re whimpering and begging for him to let go.

Panic only sets in when you feel the first crack of bones. You shriek and start writhing, trying to get away from him. Your father doesn’t say a word. Still holding onto your wrist, he flings you like he would any pebble across a pond.

You don’t feel your back hit the tree trunk or your bones shove out of place. You _do_ feel a branch push in-between your spinal disc and that’s what makes you scream at the top of your lungs. You gulp for air. You can barely breathe. You’re sobbing, impaled on a stiff piece of wood. You can’t see your father through your tears. You don’t know if he’s realized his mistake by now or if he’s glad that he taught you a lesson about bothering him.

After a near eternity of pain and tears, it’s Equius who pulls you off the branch. You are sobbing incoherently, drenching his shoulder with watery olive tears. He shooshes you and gently pats your back—avoiding your wound. He tells you it’s going to be alright.

It’s not alright. Not in the slightest.

You see your father taken away by the police and this time it’s not just a fine and a few nights from home. This time a ceruleanblood in a nice suit and pressed hair comes to your trailer and talks to you and your mother for hours on end about “the incident” (which is only what she would refer to it as, in hushed tones, because she doesn’t wish to “alarm you”). She asks you and your mother if your father’s had a history or anger problems and abuse. She asks you both if this is the first time physical abuse has taken place. She asks if you’d like to testify in court or if you’d feel safer living someplace else.

You’re shaking with anger. If your spine wasn’t fucked up, you would claw this uppity bitch’s face off. What in fuck does she know? You take one look at her and know she’s one of those suburban trolls. She’s never had to struggle. Never had to experience the heartbreak of seeing hope and dreams suddenly shrivel up and die. She’s never had to be on welfare or worry about where her food comes the next month.  

You tell her to go away but the woman is persistent. The city government is persistent. They won’t let your father come home because this is third strike. This is his third strike and he’s a purpleblood and a danger to everyone around him.  They won’t let you see him and it’s not like you can do anything about it.

Three weeks of physical therapy and you still need crutches to stagger around. You hate it. You’d rather be dead than a fucking cripple. How are you supposed to hunt like this? Who wants to be quadranted with a godsdamned _cripple_?

You’re lucky you have a moirail who’s talented with machines.

A strong moirail who uses his strength to forcibly knock your disc back into place.

A caring moirail who makes sure you have something more secure in your spine besides frail bone. You are a hunter after all. You don’t care about the scars on your back from the surgery or the metal plating now trailing down your back.  

You would die for Equius if you could.

It’s your thirteenth birthday when you see your father again. Your mother’s been permitted to see him in jail but you’ve been forbidden from all forms of contact.

Until now.  

You weren’t prepared for how much he’d changed. You’re not small enough for him to easily carry around anymore. He seems afraid to even touch you. He’s smaller now. Skinnier. He has more scars with the most prominent being on his lips.

He signs to you. You don’t understand his gestures. Your mother has to translate and pretend she doesn’t want to break down into tears at finally seeing your matesprite,  

<<I’M SORRY, NEPETA>>

You had been angry with him for a long time now. For not being there anymore. For ending up in prison again. For crippling you and putting through the agony of therapy and being mocked as a cripple like Nitram. You had promised yourself that the first thing you were going to do when you saw him again was punch him in the face. You wanted to break his legs and show him what it was like.

Instead you end up whimpering and burst into tears. Three simple words and you break just like that. You hug him tightly and sniffle.

“It’s okay, Daddy…I forgive you…”

Your father can’t respond to you. He trembles from your touch.

 

**== >Nepeta: Pray**

You don’t remember how to do that anymore.

You’re seventeen years old and you’re talking with your moirail. You know it’s wrong for you to be away from your mother now, but you can’t be in the same room with her for long nowadays. You should be comforting her. Your father’s in jail again for something he didn’t do. She’s afraid she won’t see him ever again. Your mother needs your emotional support…

“…but I really can’t fucking _stand_ her anymore!” you hiss to your moirail.

Equius’s goggles are pulled over his face. He is hunched over a workbench in his backyard, soldering a circuit board wearing his factory jumpsuit. Friday afternoon and it’s too hot to stay inside. New Jack City’s oppressive summer heat hangs over the trailer park, as if the sun is only inches away from this stretch of land. You didn’t even want to go to school today, but your mother (and Equius) dragged you out of your trailer.

“Nepeta. Language.” says your moirail tiredly.

You pout and lean against the wall of his trailer, “You sound just like my mother sometimes.”

“Your mother has a point to make. She only nags you because she cares about you. She doesn’t want you to end up like some trolls who inhabit the gutter or Aniline End.”

“We’ll end up in Aniline End eventually.” you grunt, “There’s no way they’ll let my Dad keep his shit job since he got arrested. Not that he _loves_ the job.  They treat him like shit there.”

“Nepeta. _Language._ And work is work. We do what we must to support our families.”

“I know that, Equius!” you snarl, “The worst thing is that my parents won’t let _me_ work! I have to sit on my hands and watch my Dad be a dishwasher and my Mom be a waitress while I have to memorize what year the ancient salamander and crocodile tribes stopped their wars! It’s _ridiculous_!”

“They want you to focus on your education. It’s for the best in the long run, Nepeta. You could stand to fight with mother a little less on that front. I’m sure these days are stressful for her as well.”

“Her way of dealing with things is dragging me to church even though she _knows_ I’m an atheist.” You roll your eyes. Now _that_ announcement of self-discovery caused the worst kind of fight between you and your mother; your father actually had to auspitize. “You’re just lucky your family doesn’t have these sort of pains to put up with.”

“The grass is always greener on the other side.” Equius puts down the circuit board. He pushes the goggles up on his face. The bags under his eyes are more visible now from lack of sleep and working long hours. “My family will be getting a little bit bigger soon. I’ll have to get another job if Aradia and myself wish to move out of my father’s mobilehive.”

“You do so well at the factory though, Equius! Maybe you’ll get a raise?”

“There’s no loyalty in the manufacturing industry, Nepeta. Trollego will go with whoever is cheapest and lay-off anyone they don’t need. It’s the people in upper management who are secured. I am at the bottom.”

He swivels toward you in his chair and leans against the metal table.

“And people on the bottom are regarded as fat. Trollego used to be based in Leder. Then they relocated here because the cost of living was low at the time. I keep my ear to the ground, Nepeta. I don’t mind delivering food to the meeting rooms because I get to hear what the people in upper management are saying.”

You grimace, “And what do they say?”

Equius drums his fingers on his knees. “…there’s talk of outsourcing to another island or archipelago, a place where it’s cheaper to live so they don’t have to pay such high wages; a place like Lew or Raffil.”

“Of course they would. In Lew, you’re lucky to have electricity. People are scrambling for any kind of job there, even if it’s godsawful.”

You approach Equius and touch his hand. It’s trembling minutely; not enough for the casual eye to notice but you know your moirail. You stroke his thick fingers, feeling the hard skin along his knuckles.

“ _Equius_ …” you say, gently.

The hand clenches. “By the time I get my diploma, I’ll most likely be receiving a pink slip along with thousands of others. Many of the people in my division look forward to being laid off since there are some benefits for at a year. I… _I_ _refuse_ to just sit around and collect a paycheck like some of the others. I…I’m going into the police force.” 

You sate at the blueblood. “The cops? Equius! No way! That’s a death trap! Do you know the rate at which cops _die_ in New Jack City?”

Equius swallows, “Thirty officers were slain in the line of duty last year, and last year was a record low for this city. I want to help the people of New Jack City, Nepeta. They need hope and it can’t be done from the bottom or with protests in the street. They need someone who is going to take action. They need a hero.”

“Equius, just because you’re _strong_ doesn’t mean you’re Batkindtroll!” you fuss, “Pick up litter! Volunteer! Don’t go and throw your life away trying to clean up the streets! Everyone from Aniline End to Variance Beach knows the cops and the politicians in this city are more crooked than a question mark!”

“The salary for a police officer is high and…and if I am slain in the line of duty, the widow and children are provided for the rest of their lives. If I’m killed in the factory, all Aradia and my child will receive is a paltry sum that won’t be worth _a quarter_ of the life I lived—if Trollego doesn’t bring out to argue down that little amount of boon.”  

“I don’t like this.” you snarl, “I don’t fucking like this _at all!_ ”

“Nepeta.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Equius! Don’t do this! I don’t want to have some officer come to my door and tell my moirail was gunned down by some crackhead in an alley somewhere and I have to go with Aradia to identify the body!”

“ _Nepeta_. Nepeta, shoosh. Calm down.”

He paps your cheek as gently as possible. His hand is so large and cold against your grey skin. You whimper and your anger dissolves, now replaced by nervous fear and wracking sobs.

“Shoosh. It’s alright, Nepeta. You know I would stay with you for all eternity if I could.”

“But you c-can’t…you’ll die way before me…”

He has you in his arms now. His body is chilled compared to your tepid temperature. You sit in his lap and hold him. Sometimes you wish you weren’t such a large oliveblood; that you were closer to your mother’s height and size so that Equius could scoop you up and carry you around easier. With your freakish purpleblood-inherited height, you’re only a few inches shorter than him.  

You must be such a ridiculous looking moiraillegiance; the tall lanky oliveblood and the abnormally strong short blueblood. You’re both weirdoes by your own hemotypes’s standards.

“Shoosh. Don’t worry about that now. I have warmblood in me. You have coldblood in you. Maybe it will balance out in the end. It’s alright, Nepeta. You’re such a brave girl. You’ve been through a lot these past years. Calm down. Here, look at what I’m working on…”

With you in his lap, he swivels back to the table. He holds up the circuit board so you can have a better look at it.

“This is a new artificial intelligence I’m developing. If it works well enough, it could operate a humanoid robot to perform complex tasks no other machine can, such as fighting or running a store.”

You lean against your moirail. “Are all bluebloods obsessed with machines?”

“Are all olivebloods obsessed with cats?”

You grin, “A little bit. The old symbol for our hemotype is said to be the ancient human zodiac symbol for ‘Leo’, the cat. On our regular zodiac…I’m a Regulus Beta, I think. I don’t pay that much attention to things like that.”

“Regulus Beta: the sign of those who are willing to bend the rules to protect those closest to them.” His chest rumbles as he chuckles. He puts down the circuit board and drags the metal toolbox closer, “I should be working on Tavros’s new legs though. The ones for his adulthood molt should be prepared before he starts it.”

“I don’t see why you’re so nice to him. He’s been an asshole since he got out of the chair last year. I liked him better as a cripple. At least he was nice.”

Equius is deft with a single hand. He opens the tool box and starts pulling out pieces of metal, joints, screwdrivers, and screws of varying size.

“It’s _that_ sort of attitude that provokes Tavros into his…lewd behavior, I believe. After his accident, he received everyone’s sympathy and kindness because of his condition—whether he wanted it or not, but he buried it deep inside. He wasn’t happy and I could tell. After all, I am his brother. Even with our father’s military stipends we couldn’t afford proper prosthetics.

“But I was still young when I first installed the artificial legs on him. I made many mistakes putting them in. They have gotten better over time, but he was in pain for quite some time. There is still some…nerve damage left over from the accident as well. His recent surgery has eased some of that pain but it’s not entirely gone.”

“His boyfriend doesn’t seem to care.”

“I doubt the man’s even noticed. He’s very self-centered, as most cobaltbloods tend to be. How are your flushed and pitch quadrants, Nepeta?”

You groan, as if he’s struck you with an arrow right between the ribs.

“ _Nepeta._ ”

“Mom and me have been fighting over them. She wants me to be like her and quadrant with a strong coldblood and give her grandchildren.” You roll her eyes, “ _Fat_ _chance_. Like I could afford kids. I don’t even like most kids. I didn’t like _me_ as a kid.”

“Your mother is lonely and she worries that you’re going to be alone as well.”

“Mom wants me to be like _her_. She wants me to wear dresses and act all sweet and watch flushroms all day. I can’t _do_ that! I’ll go _nuts_!” You slide off of Equius’s lap, “I should go before Mom starts calling like crazy and wondering where I am—even though I’m right across the _street_!”

“When are your father and Gamzee returning?”

“I don’t know. They were found innocent so I think it’s just the processing right now.” you mutter, “Tonight if we’re lucky. Tomorrow morning if we’re not so lucky…”

You walk from the backyard, hands in your pockets, hunched over at your usual ‘angle of misery’. Your mother says you would have been happier if you’d been born a purpleblood. You wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb among all the other olivebloods in school with your size.

Of course if you were a purpleblood, you’d be in the same boat of prejudice and fluxing employment that your father is in.

You see Cronus get out of the Vantas-Ampora trailer, shutting the door with a miserable sigh. He looks at you. You debate about bolting for your trailer. The seatroll gives an awkward smile.

“Uh, hey. Nep.” he says. “So. About what happened yesterday…”

You never liked seatrolls. They smell of sulfur and rot from the water here since they need to drench themselves in moisture, whether it’s contaminated or not. Even Feferi in all her bouncing sweetness smells like metal-salts and putrefying fish. You wonder if its genetics or the water that’s slowly driving her crazy.  

You frown, “You mean you attacking my father and getting him sent to prison and probably fired for something he _obviously didn’t do?_ ”

“Yeah. That. _That_ was pretty boneheaded of me I’ll admit.” Cronus rubs the back of his head, “It’s just…I don’t know if you could understand this or not, but…Kan’s dear to me. Precious. He’s been hurt so badly before I wasn’t there for him and that’s why he’s such…”

“An alcoholic emotional mess?”

Cronus frowns. “I was gonna say ‘not in good mental health sometimes’. He had a rough childhood.” 

Now it’s your turn to frown. “ _Everyone_ here had a rough childhood but y’know what? You just… _deal_ with it! You pull yourself up by your bootstraps and you just march on.”

“Not _everyone_ can do that, Nep.” Cronus huffs, “Not everyone has an iron will to keep ‘em from breakin’ so easy.”

You growl, “Then why not let him _kill_ _himself_ if he’s so miserable?”

Cronus gives a low growl and walks away from you. He gets on the parked hoverbike and starts the engine. He swerves out of the driveway; either late for work or a visit with his prostitute.

You’re not stupid. You’ve been around Karkat long enough to realize that his parents were in a false matespriteship. You know Cronus always smells of flowery perfume; something you’ve _never_ smelt on Kankri.

You walk to your trailer and get ready to deal with your mother.


	2. the return

You two are arguing so loudly you don’t even notice your father and Gamzee walk through the door. It’s evening and still ridiculously hot outside. Even in your shirt and tanktop you’re still sweating up a storm. Gamzee is staring off into space. Unlike your father, the life doesn’t seem drained out of him. He’s just in the mental fog again.

Your mother doesn’t care in the slightest. She hugs your father before you can. You look at Gamzee.

“Are you alright? You look totally zoned out.” you mutter. “Gamzee?”

The young purpleblood’s eyes are shrunken; focused on something you can’t see. He looks down at him and gives you a pained smile.

“Nothing’s wrong, my purrsis. Just spending a night back in the cooler gives a motherfucker all sorts of bad dreams about the old days.”

You touch his face. His skin’s incredibly cold, far colder than Equius’s. You’ve only felt a worse chill from Feferi. “Maybe you should go lay down on my daybed…”

Gamzee nods and walks from you without another word. You look at your father.

“What’d they do to him in there?” you ask.

Your father signs, <<HE’S VERY DOPED UP. THEY HAD HIM LIKE THAT THE ENTIRE TIME. HE’LL COME OFF THE MEDS IN A WHILE.>>

Your father sits down his battered armchair. Your mother sits next to him on the pull-out couch. You sit on the floor next to your father since the floor’s probably just as comfortable as that hard slab of foam you’ve been calling a pull-out couch since you were young.

Your mother leans against your father, smiling. “At least you are returned to me this time.”

Your father gives a tired sigh and signs back, <<YES. BUT HOW ARE GOING TO SUPPORT OURSELVES? THERE’S NO WAY THEY’LL LET ME EVEN WASH DISHES.>>

Your mother looks down. “I don’t know. Disability will only carry so far. I could get another job until something comes up.”

Your father looks down and rubs his temples irritably.

“Maybe Gamzee and me could get jobs since Dad won’t be able to work…” you mutter.

Your father shakes his head, <<NO NEPETA. STAY IN SCHOOL. ITS YOUR ONLY CHANCE TO GET OUT OF HERE.>>

“But I could work part time and make deliveries for pizza or…or _something!_ They need someone who’s fast and can work odd shifts!”

Your father growls, <<NEPETA. _NO_. END OF DISCUSSION. >>

“Ugh! _Fine_!”

You stand up and stomp off to your room. It irks you how your father could still be such a stubborn jerk but now he can’t even shout at you. You walk to your room and slam the door. You flick on the light.

A low snarl comes from your daybed:

“Motherfucker turn that _shit off._ ”

“Oh! Sorry!”

You immediately flick the light off and let your eyes adjust to the darkness. You don’t have excellent vision in the dark like your parents but you can make out shapes and movement better than most trolls your age. The security light on the back porch is flashing an ugly yellow-orange into your window. Some Tinkerbulls are probably setting off the motion detector. Gamzee is huddled on your daybed with a blanket pulled over his head. You sigh and sit on next to him.

“Sorry…I forgot you were in here…” you whisper.

The purpleblood rolls over onto his side. “What is the motherfucking _problem_?” he growls.

“It’s just…so frustrating! They never let me do anything to help!”

Of course your skills are pretty limited to running, hunting, killing, wrestling, and tackle-hugging bluebloods.

Gamzee sits up. He inches over to you, “Hey, no rush. Money will come up.”

That doesn’t brighten your mood. You look at your claws. You’ve always taken good care of them—sharpening them when you can, cleaning them after you finish a successful hunt in the swamps.

“I used to think that…” you whisper, “…I used to think that things would be alright if the end if I kept hope long enough. But I don’t like the idea of just waiting around praying anymore. My father was a minister before. I don’t know why he stopped being one…”

“He lost his motherfucking faith in the Mirthful Messiah. Some coldbloods don’t motherfucking take kindly to that, especially purplebloods.”

“That’s not this fault!” you hiss, “Purplebloods don’t ‘take kindly’ to my Mom either!”    

“Your mother is just a regular oliveblood…”

He sits up and then grabs your arm, pushing you down on the daybed. He is hunched over. You’re stared up at him, watching the thick tangle of curly black hides his eyes. His claw slides down your shoulder.

“Gamzee. W-what…” you mutter.

“…you could be a motherfucking highblood in all but blood color.”

The olive rises to your cheeks. You look away, frowning a little. “I do like hunting and fighting but if I get too aggressive, they’ll want to dope me up like they do with the more aggressive trolls…I’m already on notice because of my Dad…”

You don’t have to explain who “they” are. _They_ are the people who make all the decisions that impact your life—the people who say trolls can’t own firearms in New Jack City. The people who say coldbloods and anyone with coldblood genetics can’t compete in athletic competitions. The people who say your father is too dangerous to be around his own family. _They_ don’t just include the humans or the carapaces. Oh no. That would make things more tolerable, you think. Then you could just blame their behavior on good ol’ fashion speciesism.

But you can’t.

Because _they_ also include trolls as well. Suburban trolls. Upper middle class trolls. Upper class trolls. Old money trolls. New money trolls. Conservative elite trolls. Liberal elite trolls. Well learned trolls. Trolls who go to fancy private colleges, write lengthy papers, and give long lectures in university halls about the plight of the urban poor. How some hemotypes can’t help but be self-destructive and dangerous. Trolls who know their own people are in trouble and just shake their head with a mild _tsk tsk_ , or dust off their concerns with the annual donation to some charity—as if that will make sure you don’t end up on the streets. 

It grinds your nerves the most knowing that it’s not your species or your gender that matters here. It’s money. At the end of the day, at the end of time, it will _always be_ because you’re shit poor. You look up at Gamzee—the gangly, scarred troll he is; the chemical concentrate sopor in his blood slowly eating giant holes in his brain.

If this was Alternia, he would have been a brutal, vicious prince. He could’ve had you killed. Now he’s just another gutter-troll.

You don’t say anything to each other. You feel his hands explore, trusting your senses more than your eyes now. A large claw goes through your hair. The one at your shoulder slides down your arm.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Nothing...” is the very untrue response because you feel the hand in your hair rub the velvety ridges on your horn. A tingling spreads from the top of your skull down to your shoulders.

You have to practically tear yourself away from his touch, “My parents are awake…”

“They got other things on their mind. They won’t be having their ears pressed to the door.”

He runs a claw down your body. You growl and scoot away from him, moving backwards on the daybed.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”  

“Why motherfucking not?”

You show your teeth. “Why should I? Just because you’re purpleblood doesn’t mean you can force me.”

He moves closer, putting more of his weight on you. He is an inch away from his face now. You see slivers of his eyes through the tangled hair. He keeps rubbing on your horns. The other hand is exploring; trying to be sneaky and slide up your shorts. You grab the wrist before it goes any further with a low growl.

Gamzee keeps rubbing, determined. “I’ve been by my motherfucking self for so long…hard not to up and want to be close to such a motherfucking cute troll…hard to make yourself _not_ want to touch…”

“You want to do _more_ than touch,” you say, “I’m not on the pill.”

“Should be okay if you aren’t in motherfucking heat.”

That excuse reeks of so much bullshit it’s hard to believe the smell hasn’t knocked you out. You consider the outcomes of this romp though: would it be so terrible if you were wriggled up, even by accident? You’ve seen the trolls in black are on their bi-annual run again. They pay 20 grand for healthy eggs and whisk them away. They gave extra for purpleblood eggs.

You know this because they spoke to your mother more than once in the past; back when your father was still in prison.

You smile playfully at Gamzee. You let go of his wrist. You trail your claw along his ribcage and dig your nails in. You feel him shudder.

“I might claw you.” you purr.

“Not a motherfucking problem...”

It’s near dark in the room. You can’t see his face entirely. You just hear the low laugh and the eager shuffling of clothes. You slide more onto the daybed, listening to it creak. You have to rely on your sense of touch and hearing to realize what is going on.

 

You know you dig your right claws into his shoulders. His hand is up your shirt. Squeezing and stroking your heftsacks. You feel hair slide down your chest as he licks at the soft mounds. You moan and soon it becomes less about trying to get wriggled up and more about getting properly fucked. While you feel a cold tongue slither along your nipple, you gasp and rub his horns. They’re covered in fine stiff hairs at the base that feel a little ticklish on your fingers as your stroke them. You feel Gamzee quake; panting cold breath on your skin.

Your other claw rips his shirt. Enough foreplay. You pant, in a sultry tone, “ _Fuck_ _me.._.”  

He chuckles and shifts his weight. You feel the shorts and panties slide off. Feel something thin and cold slide inside of your nook. That’s definitely not his bulge; its not thick or slippery enough. Definitely his claw worming its way inside of you. You can’t help but moan. Only your father would hear and you hope he’s in that specific (convenient) state of depression where he’s barely aware of what’s going on around him.   

“Come _on_ …” you gasp.

You feel more chilled digits slide in. You angle your hips upwards; grinding down on his hands. You can only talk in panting gasp and frantic little moans and squeals.   

“Heh. You _can’t_ fucking wait, can you? My own motherfucking finger puppet.”

He picks this as the right time to keep pushing you; to keep teasing you. He keeps moving his fingers. Asking you how it feels. Asking how badly you want it. He wants to hear you moan and beg for his bulge. He tells you how much of your olive fluids you’ve spent on your daybed. How you’re staining the mattress so badly that there’ll be no saving it.

He doesn’t seem interested in keeping you quiet. You’re too overstimulated to care. The fingers slide out and then— _oh yes—_ there’s what you’ve been waiting for. It slides inside you easily before you get to the midsection girth and— _fuck—_ that is where the pinching pain and struggle begins. Your claws dig into the mattress and start ripping.

You feel him shift his hips against you. You yowl only a little and you’re not sure if it’s from pleasure or that dull ache of having something foreign in your nook for the first time.

He starts moving faster. Moisture drips down on you and slides into your mouth, tasting of salt and greasepaint. Sweat. You moan again and feel that bulge work its way more inside you. It rubs over the gland outside of your eggsack…and every nerve in your waist is electrified. A thousand lights inside you suddenly shouting in approval.

He ruts faster. You rake your claws down his arm. He doesn’t wince or pause. You’re sure he’s had worse in prison.

Your mingled genetic fluids are surprisingly hot when you both finally climax. You suppose that’s what all the friction does, or maybe it just feels hot to you. He pulls out of you and you feel wet warmth all along your waist. The genetic fluids remind you of oil in temperature and slippery texture. Thankfully, it’s not an uncomfortable stickiness. It feels almost natural, laying here on your daybed in post-sex exhaustion. Gamzee lies next to you, winded.

You smell your claws in the darkness, clotted with purple blood. “…okay…that was worth it…”

“I couldn’t motherfucking agree more.”

You lick your claws, purring. It tastes less coppery and almost intoxicating; as if someone’s turned his blood into a fine wine. “This doesn’t solve our money problem.”      

You don’t tell him about your back-up plan with the trolls in black. He’d realize you were using him and given his past history with anger management problems, that would not end well for you.

“No, but it motherfucking clears the head of frustration to think on how we can.”

“The only thing I’m good at is hunting, fighting, and running.”

“How good are you at snatching shit?”

“You mean shoplifting?” You make a wishy-washy gesture. “I usually shoplift the simple things, like toothpaste and food. Things I can fit in my pocket. It cuts down on the bills but I haven’t done it in a while.”

“Did you get caught?”

“…Dad was getting suspicious of whenever I’d go to the store, my coat pockets would suddenly be full.” you admit in a low whisper.

“If you’re good enough we could always motherfucking shoplift and sell to the black market.”

You sit up. “Only certain things sell well enough though. We need a high priced item like…”

The thought hits you before you finish the sentence. You know what’s in high demand around here: medicine and birth control for trolls and humans alike. Pills, maskers, powerful pain killers, and antibiotics—the quartet of items that are nigh impossible to keep in stock without medical insurance.

“…pills are always under lock and key in the pharmacy. You have to know someone behind the counter to get at them.” you mutter, “Its high risky though. We get caught, the both of us would go to jail.”

“If you want to get at pills, you wouldn’t shoplift them. Only dumbass motherfuckers with nothing left try that shit, purrsis.” He grins, “You gotta be shoplifting chemicals. Nail polish remover mostly.”

“Nail polish remover…?”

“You can wash old vouchers. Rewrite them and put anyone’s name in it, or you can duplicate them if you have the right equipment. Learned the trade back in prison, among a few other things.”

“You learned how to do that in prison??”

Gamzee yawns, “Makara boys always help each other out. The name carries weight at the Amethyst Institute. Carries motherfucking lineage. Vinnie Makara’s boys go to prison and go scouting. Print out fake vouchers or wash old ones and you’re set in there.”

You roll your eyes. It figures that the so-called Amethyst Institute that promoted better health and wellness among its inmates would be corrupt as New Jack City.

“So what can I do?” you ask.

“You have the best element on your side girl: you’re an oliveblood. People don’t suspect shit about you. You’re the cute romance crazy catgirl hemotype after all. Heh heh.”

A gagging noise rolls from up from the back of your throat, “Ugh. You make every oliveblood sound like my fucking _mother._ ”

Gamzee chuckles, “Stereotypes work wonders, my purrsis. You can use them to fool people into thinking whatever you want. When you’re an idiot, nobody bothers keeping their guard up. First things first: we got to find a place to set ‘shop’.”

You drum your claws on the daybed. “There has to be someone who needs the money as badly as we do and their parents won’t care.”

“The less people involved the better. More motherfucking people means splitting the share and more chances of someone squealing.”

“True enough.” You lay back down on the daybed.

 

“Should motherfucking catch some Z’s for now.”

You smile and snuggle against him with a soft purr. No one is quite sure why trolls purr but you don’t mind it. Gamzee lays his heavy arm around your waist. You look at the door. With all the tension between you and your mother, she’s not going to come into your room anytime soon. Your father, however, could come in the night and see you two wrapped up. He’d smell the faint musk of two young trolls who have just fucked.

You hope he doesn’t flip the fuck out at seeing his half-brother curled around his daughter. If he does…oh well. You’re too tired to worry about anything now. You murmur a “g’night” to Gamzee. The purpleblood doesn’t respond; most likely he’s fallen asleep.

* * *

You wake up at three in the morning with an aching nook and headache. Your thighs feel sticky from the dried genetic fluids. Gamzee still has you pulled close with his other hand on your breast—as if this motherfucker’s expecting round two once he wakes up from his sex-coma. You shove his hand off and get off the daybed.

You peek down the hallway—no one on the couch and no lights in the kitchen. You make a dash for the bathroom. Thankfully, there’s always towels folded in the closet. You shower quickly, knowing the more water you use the higher the water bill climbs. You’d ask Jake how much it would cost to have him install a rain-water recycler but you don’t always pay your bills on time.

And when you don’t pay your bills on time, the DD loves to make personal visits. Like a demon, he manifests monthly if he doesn’t receive his check and can only be banished by money to that special section of hell reserved for miser landlords.

Your leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Your father is standing in the hallway.

“Oh! _Dad_!” Your face colors olive, “What are you doing up? I thought you were asleep with Mom. Are you…having trouble sleeping? Is there something wrong with your recuperacoon?”

Your father doesn’t move. He keeps watching you. The last time he looked at you like this, you were impaled on a tree sobbing and paralyzed because of a slipped disc. You press yourself against the wall.

“Dad…?”

He reaches towards you and you cringe. He touches the side of your face. His touch is slightly warmer than Gamzee’s; a few degrees of difference.

“…is something wrong?”

Your father’s eyes are half-open. He signs at you with his other hand: <<YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER.>>

You raise an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t, I think you’d have more of a beef with Mom than with me.”

He leans forward and presses his scarred lips against your forehead in a gossamer delicate kiss. You stare at him. There is a distant look in his watery eyes.

You smile and touch his arm, “Dad, it’ll be okay. Something always turns up.”

Your father doesn’t sign back. He walks back to the bedroom he shares with your mother and shuts the door. You enter your bedroom and shut the door behind you. Gamzee is softly snoring on the daybed. His musculature reminds you of Equius.

Equius. Your moirail. Your moirail who is going to be a cop. Your moirail who will probably be the one who slapping the cuffs on Gamzee and you if you get caught.

Your moirail’s words echo down into your skull:

_“Regulus Beta: the sign of those who are willing to bend the rules to protect those closest to them…”_

Regulus Beta. One of the 20 zodiac signs. Yours is the sign of the Benevolent One Inverted since you were born on an odd-numbered day.  

You’re not your moirail though. You don’t believe in astrology or fate; you believe in what you know and what you can see with your own two eyes.

You remember being ten years old, awoken from a deep sleep by a wail outside your bedroom door. You leave the bedroom with your blanket wrapped around you. Its ice cold inside. The electricity bill was late and the DD shut off the electricity even though it was the middle of winter.

Your mother sits on the living room couch. Two trolls in black stand at the door, preparing to exit the trailer. They don’t look like local trolls; they’re tall and dark skinned with tattoos along the face. They’re bundled up in thick coats, plush scarves, and dark gloves; dark glasses on their face. The troll closest to the door holds a metal ovoid container; inside, a purple egg was suspended in a lavender fluid.

 

You ask your mother what’s going on. She doesn’t look at you. The troll in black tilts their head to you, muttering in guttural words that don’t sound like any Alternian you’ve ever heard. Then they leave your trailer. _  
_

You stand at the door, watching them drive down the snowy road in their rusting hovercar. The next day the heat and lights return. Your mother says nothing about what you saw or the weeping.

You don’t believe in astrology, the supernatural, or gods.   

You believe in desperation and the fear of homeless and starvation. That’s something you believe in more than any god and something you’re not willing to tolerate. You won’t let your family go through that again.

Not when you can do something about it.


	3. working for the weekend

“We need a place that doesn’t attract attention.” he tells you, “We need to be able to come and go as we please at any time of night without the cops or anyone getting suspicious.”

Saturday morning and you’re sitting in front of the 7-11 on Park Avenue, eating breakfast burritos with Gamzee. You’re squinting with the summer sun’s glare in your eyes; six in the morning and its already eighty degrees out. The only people out on the streets are the dealers and prostitutes, both trying to case out potential buyers.

“South Street trailers are empty but they’re sinking into the mud.”  you say, “Plus there are the lusii. They keep away the cops, but it could be a problem.”

Gamzee shakes his head. “Someone would notice us going around the swamps too often.” He nudges you with his bony elbow, “What in motherfuck are you doing, purrsis? Fucking _think_. Need a place that won’t stick out, has room, has neighbors that’ll keep their eyes to the motherfucking ground.”

You lean against the cement wall of the convenience store. It takes a minute to reach your conclusion: “…I can think of a place where people don’t give a shit about anything. The hope’s been drained out of them; just sit around and do soporin or mind honey all day…”

“Motherfucking jail?” but he says this with a lazy grin.

You smirk, “East End Hotels. It’s where people who can’t afford to live _here_ go. Everyone there is living off an EBT card and a monthly check from the city if they’re lucky. If you can’t survive on that well…you do what you have to do.”

Gamzee looks around at the scantily clad humans and even— _ew_ —a salamander walking down the street. He raises an eyebrow, “Any reason we got a motherfucking abundance of prostitutes _here_ then?”

“Quality, I think. You’re _slightly_ less likely to catch syphilis from Park Avenue hookers than East End hookers.” You finish the breakfast burrito with a chomp and toss the wrapper over your shoulder, “I wouldn’t know. Prostitution’s _gross_.”

Gamzee laughs so hard he starts wheezing for breath. It’s a low rumbling laugh to accompany that gravel-in-a-blender voice of his.

“ _Gross?_ You think fucking strangers is _gross?”_

“Uh. _Yeah_.” You roll your eyes, “And most of those strangers are weird and gross too who want you to do all sorts of shit for money. I dunno; fucking complete strangers is just gross to me.”

Gamzee smirks, “You weren’t up and complaining about getting nailed last night.”

“Yeah, but I _know_ you, Gamzee.”  

Gamzee yawns, showing off those giant tusks he calls fangs. “For like all of a motherfucking week.”

“You’re my father’s brother. You’re blood.” You stand up, “It’s different.”  

Gamzee stands, towering over you. “ _Half_ brother. Like it motherfucking matters. Purple is purple.”

“Who’s your mother then?”

The purpleblood scowls. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “Let’s motherfucking go already.”

* * *

It’s a forty five minute walk to the East End Hotels. They’re at the edge of the trailer park where it starts petering out into the rest of the city, only a stone’s throw from Fairmont Street and the interstate. The hotels take up an entire block.

Gamzee cranes his neck from the motel and looks down the long stretch of road that is Fairmont Street.

“How far does this motherfucking highway go?” he asks.

“Fairmont Street’s also Interstate 36,” you say, “You can get anywhere in New Jack City taking it. If you take it all the way to the end, you end up at the docks that’ll take you off island. There’s also a dozen side streets along here where you can merge off and onto.”

Gamzee scratches the side of his face, raining down flecks of dried paint. “Easy escape route from the greens and room for growth then.” He looks at you with a big grin, “Let’s see if this as motherfucking good as it look.”

There is a large rusting gate in the front you doubt would even move. There is no inch of the building where the paint isn’t bubbling and flaking off. There are less prostitutes hanging outside doors and more people pushing around shopping carts like it’s their personal taxicab. Like any people living on the very bottom of society, they’re a dirty ragged bunch. You recognize the twitches of a mind honey junkie aching for another afternoon chasing the bee around. A prostitute with rotting teeth from soporin abuse and cold sores from an STD.

Gamzee and you walk across the parking lot that’s been cleaved time and time again by grass pushing through the old gravel.

“What motherfucker owns this shithole?” Gamzee asks.

“The DD owns every piece of property in the 9th Ward, which means he owns the trailer park, East End Way, and Aniline End.” you say, “The only thing the DD _doesn’t_ own is the Strip. His son owns that I think.”

“The DD?”

“The Debenture Dictator. He’s a tall black carapaces and he’s…he’s a complete bastard. He doesn’t care about the trailer park or the people in it as long as he gets paid. He doesn’t care if you end up at the hotels— _here—_ because the government gives him a fat check for housing the homeless.”

Gamzee stops walking and looks along the bottom level of motels. You’ve never seen him focused like this before. Usually he seems so scatter brained and clumsy. Now he’s like a hawk. You can see his eyes darting around—as if judging the area for possible exits and entrances.

Your eyes are more on the people around you.

It’s Saturday morning and there are kids your age wearing worse shit than you—clothes that are too tight or too baggy, shoes that are chewed with holes, and matted dirty hair. Teenagers stand around abandoned shopping carts, overflowing barrels of garbage like they’re white collar employees at the water cooler. Children play soccer with giant chunks of gravel and cans. Play baseball with thick branches snatched from trailer park trees or old pipes and use hovercars and street lamps as the bases.   

It breaks your heart to see; you were just like these kids. You look over at a wheelchair left abandoned in a pothole. Its damp with morning dew and its owner nowhere to be seen.

“Two floors of misery…” you mutter.

“What sort of motherfuckers end up here?” Gamzee asks.

“Lemme think…” you mumble. A minute later you say, “The DD won’t tolerate addicts if they can’t afford to pay the rent and if they’re too scared to go to Aniline End, they come here.”

“Lowbloods.” the purpleblood grunts, “Humans. Carapaces. Who else?”

You look at the children playing, “Families who get burned out and don’t get relocation money. People who get laid off. Veterans who won’t take their meds. Bums that can’t make it to the shelters.”

“They got shelters in this city?”

You shrug, “Like two for every district but they’re crowded and you have to take your meds or they don’t let you stay. It’s not permanent housing though and the rooms change every day. At least at a motel, they got a place to keep their stuff.”

Gamzee grunts again. He walks to the metal stairs leading up to the second level of the motel. He makes a gesture for you to follow, which you do. You both make considerable noise up the stairs—which screeches even you’re your light footsteps.

“Lots noise. Motherfucking good in case you got someone sneaking around.” He mumbles as he ascends the stairs.

“Why’re we heading up?”

“Low visibility on the first floor. When the greens pull up you wouldn’t even know it until they were knocking at your door.”

“ _If_ the greens show up.”

Gamzee looks at you from over his shoulder. “Greens could show up for any reason and search looking for one thing and find something else. You don’t want that. Gives ‘em motherfuckers an excuse to ask a bunch of question you don’t wanna motherfucking hear.”

He walks along the top floor. You slide your claws along the decaying and bent railing. From the second level you can see the smoggy haze hanging over the tops of distant buildings.

“Which way is the nearest police station?” Gamzee asks you.

“How in fuck should I know that…?” is your honest response.

“Because if the greens are coming, you want to be the first to know.”

“The cops never really race over here but usually they come into the trailer park all the way from downtown…but Fairmont Shoppes isn’t even a quarter-mile from here. There’s always cops cruising around there cause of all the stores…”

“The first response team would come here if there’s nothing going on. So _that_ way.” He points southwest. “Then we should be…”

He walks further along the second floor and takes a quick turn so you’re at the west arm of the motel that curls around the parking lot. He moves at a hurried pace and you’re jogging to keep up with him. He stops suddenly in front of a stained beige door. ‘B24’ has been drawn on it in black marker where the shadow of door letters once hung.

“… _here._ ” he says.

“Here?” you ask, “It’s a dump. It doesn’t even have _door_ _letters_. It’s probably a wreck inside.”

“Messier is better. Means motherfuckers won’t come bothering us too often.” Gamzee squints at the window, “Can’t see no one moving around inside.” He looks at you, “How good are you at picking locks?”

You shake your head. “Uh, I just shoplift. I’m not Troll Lupin the Third.”

“Should’ve motherfucking figured.” Gamzee points to the parking lot, “Go talk to those motherfuckers down there. Ask who lives in B24 and what their story is. Don’t give no names and lie your glute off if you gotta. Got it?”

You look down and see the crowd of kids and teenagers. You look back at Gamzee, “Them? Why’d they talk to me? I don’t even live here. I’m trailer trash not _motel_ _trash_.”  

Gamzee leans over you. He growls, showing his fangs. “You _want_ that motherfucking money? Then you pull your motherfucking _weight._ Go down there _and find the fuck out._ I don’t care _how_ you do it,just _motherfucking up and do it. Got it?”_

You show him your small sharp teeth. “Don’t fucking _growl_ at me and push me the fuck around. Just because you fucked me doesn’t make me kow-tow to your addict ass. I’m not an ex-con like you. This is my first fucking time breaking the godsdamned _law_.”

“Which is why I motherfucking need you to stop dicking around. Do your own half of the _fucking_ _job_!”

“ _I fucking am_! _Gods!_ ”

You turn away from him before your squabble turns physical. He’s an asshole but you need the fucker. You need his skills and his knowledge to pull this off so you can’t burn that bridge. Not yet. So you bury your pride and descend the screeching outdoor stairs.

You scan the area for who would know this place best. Someone who’s your age and outgoing is the best bet. You spy a quartet of teenaged trolls hanging near a pick-up hovertruck. One of them glances at you.  

You try to put on a friendly smile. You can’t. You’re still irritated with Gamzee for acting like he can jerk you around like a pet lusus on a leash. You look to the level and see Gamzee is hunched over the metal banister.

He gives a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

You flip him the only finger that matters to you.

Gamzee makes a ‘I will motherfucking skin you alive bitch’ gesture in return.

You’re about to give him a ‘Suck my bulge’ gesture when you notice one of the teenaged trolls walking over to you. They’re wearing ripped jeans with a plaid skirt over that and a shirt that’s three sizes too big. You can’t see heftsacks so you’ll assume this troll’s male. His eyes are red but not the bright cherry shade of Karkat’s or the dark rust of Aradia’s. He’s missing his left arm.  

“Lemme guess, cuz,” He jerks a thumb in Gamzee’s direction, “Asshole boyfriend?”

Gamzee is still scowling. You smirk.

“Yeah, that’s the asshole. Always jerking me around and treating me like a slave but what’re you gonna do you know?” You shrug, “Purple’s act how they only know how.”

He grins, “An’ purple doan crack, sis. Mebbe a bossy bunch but da bulge too fuckin’ bomb to leave. I know dat story. Gotta guy o’ me own who’s a grape.”

You notice the bite mark on his throat and a slowly healing bruise along his eye. “Matesprit or kismesis?”  

He shrugs. “It doan matter to us, cuz. Just testin’ da waters an’ seein’ what happens, yanno? What you doin’ in dis shitter, cuz? Grape up an’ wriggle ya?”

You cringe, remembering last night’s romp with Gamzee. You were relieved this morning when you didn’t have a bought of gut-twisting nausea and dizziness. After your interaction with your father, you don’t think he’d be understandable about you having Gamzee’s offspring, even if you were going to sell them.

The redblood sees your face and chuckles. “Oh yah. I know dat look. Dat look says: ‘I done up an’ fucked up bad an’ got no place to fuckin’ go cause me kin would gut me like a fuckin’ fish’.”

You nod sheepishly. “Something like that…”

“So be needin’ a place to stay?”

“My guy says he wants a certain room.” You point to Gamzee, “The one all the way at the end there.”

The redblood tilts his head. “Why he want a certain room fer?”   

“Fuck if I know. He’s weird like that and I’m not about to start a fight with him over nothing.”

“Yeah, I know how it goes. You fight wit’ a grape o’er inches an’ soon ya got ‘em thinkin’ o’ excuses to throttle you an’ say it was an accident o’ some shit.” The redblood turns his head to where Gamzee is, “B24? Well, I know dat fucka is a…whatchamacallit. NEET I thinks. Doan go outside. Doan do shit. Once a month he leaves the place, takes a da bus to da shops, den come back wit a mess o’ shit to live off of.”

“He have any visitors?”

“None that I ever see. Pro’ly be chasin’ da bee but DD doan care. Doan care who be livin’ here either once da checks be comin’. DD see da boon, DD look away from what happen here.”

“So, it’s not just homeless people here?”

The redblood looks around. He leans in close and whispers, “Eh, sis? I look old enough to you to be livin’ on my own? Da greens be comin’ here an’ da first thing dey ask is where me kin be at.” He leans away from you with a wink, “DD doan care if you pay rent on time. I be livin’ under me grandma’s name. Bitch been dead fer months.”

You smile. “Sounds like you got a pretty cool situation going on here.”

“Yeah, it be pretty sweet, sis. Folk doan know how good some o’ us we gots it.” The redblood smiles, “Ellton, by the way. Me kin didn’t know much Alternian so dey name us whatever first thing be poppin’ into their thinkpans.”

What in the fuck is a ‘thinkpan’? Whatever, not your concern right now. You need to think of an alias quickly.

“My guy likes to call me Catmint.” you say, “I guess I should stick with that now…”

“Hey! Doan be lookin’ so _down_ , girl. Ya ain’t the only one who don’t got no kin here. Lotsa us here all alone. We each other’s kin when we can; those o’ us who ain’t busy chasing lime o’ bees that is. Folk at da bottom gotta stick together, yanno?” He nods to you, “Kin, kith, and kind. Dose are the ties dat bind.”

You smile a little. “Kin, kith, and kind…”

You recognize the phrase being spouted among the few Aniline End trolls who still bother with school. You’ve never actually heard someone say it to you without a hint of mockery in their voice though.

You wave good-bye to Ellton and return to Gamzee. You tell him the score. He’s grinning from ear to ear about it.

“Oh _motherfuck_ yes.” he says, “We are definitely setting up shop tonight.”

“Tonight? Why _tonight_?”  

“The sooner the better.” Gamzee is already walking away, “We get the supplies today. Set up shop and start working. You don’t sit on this sort of shit or you end up trying to talk yourself out of doing it.” He frowns at you, “Unless you’re getting second thoughts.”

You glare at him. “Just because I’m a warmblood doesn’t mean I’m a coward.” You square your shoulders and march on ahead, in front of him, “Let’s just up and _go_.”

Gamzee smiles. “What I like to hear, purrsis.”

* * *

You spend the morning getting supplies i.e. shoplifting. Tavros was the one who taught you the fine art of shoplifting. How to trick the security camera into thinking you were doing something else. How to realize when an employee was watching you. What to steal. Where to steal. When to steal. How to avoid the security detectors and alarms, or trick them.

The first rule: don’t steal anything you can’t explain.

The second rule: don’t steal anything that’ll make your parents or siblings ask questions.

The third rule: don’t steal anything that’ll make the cops ask questions.

The fourth rule: don’t get greedy.

You convince Gamzee that you should buy two bottles acetone and one bottle nail polish, cake mix, two aluminum cake pans, pens, and a notebook while he shoplifts rubbing alcohol and metal tongs.

“Why in motherfuck do we need to buy anything?” he asks.

The both of you stand in the Super-Walmart parking lot. Once again you’re arguing in near whispers. People hurry past you, either heading to the Super-Walmart or one of the other stores at Fairmont Shoppes.  

“The pans I could understand why all the other shit?” he says.

“I’m the expert here, _not_ _you_.” you repond, “If we shoplift everything you want in one go, we’re going to get _caught_. When they see everything we have, they’ll get suspicious.”

“Why would they get suspicious?”

“Gamzee, use your sopor frazzled brain. People don’t go to the store just to pick up random stuff. They go into stores with a purpose in mind and then they pick up things along the way. We’re going into the store to buy equipment so everything we want would have to be related to that. If we get caught”—you see the look on his face and scowl—” _If!_ If that happens, they will look at what we have and realize its purposes aren’t good, right? Then they won’t just make us pay out of pocket. They’ll call the cops. Then we’ll both be in deep horsearoni-shit.

“ _But,_ we can distract them. Let them think of a different connection. We’re getting nail polish remover, so nail polish makes sense. Aluminum pans and cake mix. Pens and a notebook. I’m baking a cake, painting my nails, and writing down my feelings in a stupid journal for a fun girly Saturday night and I’m dragging my doped up SAT boyfriend along because he’s too crazy to leave home alone.”

You arch an eyebrow, “Alright? Can we _do_ this now?”

Gamzee rolls his eyes, “Let’s just motherfucking get this over with.”

He wants to rush through the store quickly and grab everything you need. You tell him that’ll draw suspicion. A thief wants to make a quick grab and get out so that no one recognizes him. A regular browsing customer just strolls in and doesn’t worry.  They drift around from aisle to aisle with no hurried purpose in mind. They make small talk if they’re in company and make themselves uninteresting to any employees who might give a fuck about their jobs.

Gamzee leans against a display of nail files and manicure kits. “Why didn’t we go to the Dollar Store? It’s two stores down.”

You grab the acetone and toss it into the shopping card before turning yor attention to a wall of tiny colorful nail polish bottles. “Dollar Store products are cheap and small.” You add in a whisper, “They’ll notice if something suddenly goes _missing_. Plus, their shit isn’t as good when it comes to cosmetics.”

“I thought you motherfucking hated all this girly shit?”

You look at a bottle of nail polish with HARLOT RED printed on it. “Oh, so just because I hate romcoms, Troll Lisa Frank, and dresses I have to hate nail polish too? What am I—a _cartoon_? You’ve seen my room. I have fucking _stuffed_ _animals_ still.”  

“You hate _romcoms?_ That sounds like motherfucking blasphemy for an oliveblood who ships herself with the mutantblood next door.” he sneers.

“Oh, _shut_ _up_.” you growl, and you hate him even more when the blood rises to your face. You turn away from him to hide your face more.  

“It is motherfucking obvious how flushed you are for Vantas, purrsis.” You feel cold muscle bump against your back. Gamzee’s claw slides under your arm, trying to fondle at your heftsack. He whispers, “…or maybe you just have a thing for _bright red._ After last night, you should be on your knees asking for some _purple_.”

You stomp down on his foot. Gamzee hisses and backs away. You look over at him smirking.

“ _No_ _way_ in fuck I’m going _down_ on a _clown_. Ask your matesprite for that shit.” you snicker.

Gamzee looks like he’s about to shove that bottle of Harlot Red down your throat. It gives you a small thrill to see him like this—so irritated and yet unable to kill you.  

You go to the cooking aisle which is filled with cooking utensils plastic, metal, and wood, and boxes of cake, brownie, and other confectionary mixes. You make sure to make it look like you’re browsing while you block the security camera’s view of what Gamzee is doing.

“What motherfucker taught you all this shit?” he asks.

“Tavros. Who else?”

Gamzee gives a low growl. You look over at him but his face is neutral.

“What is it?” you ask.  

_“Nothing.”_ he hisses.

You smirk and hold up a box of fudge brownie mix. “You’re a huge fan of brown so this should make you happy.”

Gamzee is silent for three minutes. Then a low irritated growl, “What in motherfuck does _that_ mean?”

You toss it in the cart. “Oh get real, Gamzee. Everyone knows you were hovering around Nitram at school being all sweet and friendly.” He raise an eyebrow, “And you make fun of _me_ for liking Karkat?”  

“No motherfucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Everyone knows Karkat’s a virgin. _Nitram_ is a serious slut. Why do you think his nickname is ‘copperslut’?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh my _god_ , Gamzee.” you chortle, “Why. Why him? Why would you do that to yourself? Do you have a thing for slutty copper and herpes?”

Gamzee walks over and grabs the front of your shirt. You can smell his frustration, his agitated arousal. There’s no doubt in your mind Nitram is stringing him along.

“Shut the _motherfuck up_ about the shitblood and me!” he hisses.

“He has a _boyfriend_.”

His grip slackens a little. His eyes widen. You tilt your head.

“You didn’t know?” you ask.

“It didn’t motherfucking come up in conversation.” he grunts.

“So you _did_ talk to him. Heh.”

Gamzee grunts and let’s go of you. He steps away with an annoyed grunt. He scrubs at his face, flaking more. Oh gods. He…does he actually have a _flushcrush_ on that annoying copperblood? You didn’t see that pairing coming and you feel your heart soften a little bit. You smile at Gamzee.

“You like him.”

Gamzee growls, “The motherfuck I like that useless shitblood. They’re as good as motherfucking cattle as far as I’m motherfucking concern.”

He’s not making eye contact with you. Its borderline _adorable_ how much he doesn’t want to talk about Tavros Nitram. You fold your arms.

“His boyfriend’s a cobaltblood named Hanael Gilpin.” you whisper, “He’s in our class though he’s from Aniline End. He’s a self-centered fuck and obsessed with guns. From what I heard, his Dad’s a drug dealer.”

“I don’t motherfucking _care_!” he snaps. He turns from you and walks out of the aisle shouting, “I don’t give a motherfucking about the shitblood or his limp-bulged boyfriend. I really motherfucking _don’t_. Finish getting the shit already and let’s motherfucking _go_ already.” 

“Alright, alright. Don’t get so huffy.”

You have a secretive smile on your face though. Like shit he doesn’t care. You can tell a flush in deep denial when you see it. This pairing is definitely going up on your shipping wall as Peanut Butter and Jelly.

* * *

Your shoplifting goes off without a hitch—as to be expected when you were taught by the master of the five fingered discount himself. Gamzee and you leave Fairmount Shoppes.

You don’t bring up Tavros again. Rile up Gamzee too much and he’ll forget his inhibitions and murder you.

He can’t keep his claws off of you though. You ride the bus back to East End Way. You’re both walking down an alley when he shoves you against the wall and pulls you into a rough kiss. You bite his bottom lip with a purr and drop the plastic bag of supplies. His tongue explores your mouth. His claw is already up your shirt.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here.” he pants hatefully.

“You better fucking _not_.” you growl back.

“It’s happening. We’re motherfucking doing it.”

He kisses you again and you claw his back, rip his shirt, and shift your hips apart so he can fuck you easier. You fight him but he doesn’t give up. Eventually, you yield. You slide and grind against each other in the alleyway. Judging by the abandoned condoms on the pavement, this wouldn’t be the alley’s first experience with such activities.

If you get caught, you could just make it part of your cover. You’re just another oliveblood fucking your controlling asshole boyfriend to keep him happy.

He bites your neck as he climaxes. You add more scars to the rough grey terrain of his skin. You quickly pull up your pants and readjust your bra. Hopefully, your parents don’t realize that you smell suspiciously of sweat, agitated hatesex, and purpleblood genetic fluids.

The first thing you do when you go home is take a shower. You might as well since your shirt is drenched from summer sweat.

* * *

You sneak out with Gamzee past midnight and head back to the East End hotels. It’s even more eerie at night and almost seems abandoned. The youth would be out partying or passed out by now. Gamzee and you dress identical: wearing all black and bandana over your mouth. You keep your hoodie pulled over your face.

Gamzee has reapplied his paint for this occasion. He seems excited about this.

Breaking into B24 is easy—Gamzee just gives the door a good kick. The motel room’s a sty but you expected that. The only light comes from a TV decades old. There’s garbage on the ground and garbage bag sitting by the door—Styrofoam cups of ramen noddles, diet soda cans, and stacks of yellowing newspaper. On the bed was a huddled mass—an old troll chomping more ramen noodles from a cup. He’s junkie skinny and the veins in his stick arms are raised up from shooting soporin.

He looks at you and demands who the fuck you are and what you want.

Gamzee acts the part of a purpleblood gangbanger, which is probably the most natural role for him right now. The old troll’s no match. He’s a yellowblood burnout and they’re easy for a troll Gamzee’s size to sling around like they’re fucking nothing. You just watch.

You watch Gamzee scream and shout. Tells the junkie he has to clear out because the Capricorn Brotherhood is claiming this room as part of their turf. Tells the junkie they’ll drill holes into him to fuck when his boys show up. Tells him he’s fucking dead if he doesn’t take his motherfucking shit, drop the rent info for the room, and _motherfucking leave._    

You shudder, hearing the base in Gamzee’s voice. Those threats don’t sound empty.

The old man grabs his backpack, shovels in what looks like three vials of golden-yellow mind honey, a rubber hose, and a small sack of what you have no doubt of are syringes of questionable cleanliness.

Then the junkie scampers off like a roach into the night. Gamzee shuts the door behind him. You locate the light and a lamp hidden behind a stack of newspapers floods the room in a yellow-orange haze that makes Gamzee and you are both appear jaundiced.

You hear a low hissing noise. You look to the corner of the room. 

“Gamzee,” you say, “please tell me that’s _not_ a pile of roaches just sitting in the corner there…”

Gamzee looks over and glances back to you, “Alright, I won’t motherfucking tell you.”

You spend the next hours getting rid of all the stinking garbage and cleaning out the motel room. There are roaches in everything, under everything, or just lounging out in the open. The roaches are fat and sluggish, to the point where you’re pretty sure they got to the rats—not that you have a problem with rats. Rats are easier and more fun to kill for you. Roaches are just _disgusting._

When you’re both done you smell of spoilt milk and deodorizer, but at least the room is habitable now. You give Gamzee a tired smile. You pull out a single, old, wrinkled voucher hidden in your bra. It was delivered first of the month to your trailer. Your mother has most of the vouchers squirreled away somewhere but you found her hiding spot with enough searching. Your name is written on a blank spot on the voucher in ballpoint pen ink.   

“We’re in business.” you say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now answering asks for Trailerstuck on my tumblr at bad-imagination.tumblr.com. Feel free to ask anything directly to the characters or about the story and setting. I'm trying to avoid possible spoilers for future stuff so if I'm a little vague on the details of things then that's the reason. Stop on by. ^__^ - badAquatic/zee rose


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